Only Human
by Anguished Reveries
Summary: Being human doesn't apply just to homo sapiens anymore. It applies to our heroes too, however indomitable they seem, because being human doesn't mean mortal. It means much more, like family, love, and friends. Not a song fic. Still, feel free to listen to the song Only Human by Christina Perri while reading because I did while writing. No lyrics inside whatsoever. Oneshot. Enjoy.


The concept of being human simply doesn't belong to those not wearing hoods, or capes, or those unable to generate fire from their bodies, or possess one of the slew of powers available from the genetic lottery. What it means to those who've lost sight of normal is just that. Normal.

Being human means having feelings, having friends, and finally, inevitably, confronting death. Some unknowingly seek it out. Some are willing, but not waiting. Some are intent on it. Few truly desire it from old age. In this sense, all of Earth's heroes are all too human.

The first to go were unexpected but foreseen. Natasha and Clint- Budapest had let them go twice. Third time around? Not so much.

* * *

The instant he fell, she knew it. A stray bullet had caught him by sheer luck and he was dead before he hit the ground. And she was dead before the last breath left his lips. Because the very moment she felt it happen, _felt_ him fall out of sync as if her world had fallen out of orbit, he became her gravity and she was drawn to him. She wasn't the Black Widow anymore. She was Natasha, _his_ Nat, _his_ Tasha, and she was done fighting. And she dropped her weapons to race towards his fallen form, not caring about the bullets destined to collide with her flesh. All she cared about was getting to him before she was shot. So she did, falling,_ bleeding-broken-bruised_, onto his body to hold him as they free-falled into the unknown; two shattered people becoming whole. Together. And that was all that mattered.

* * *

Next had been Tony. With such self-destructive and self-sacrificing tendencies, it had been predictable. Even his iron suit couldn't protect him from a full blast of pure, unfiltered energy. Pepper had followed quickly, after making arrangements for their graves and funerals and the company because _that's the kind of person she was_- she had simply lain down and died. Quietly, with a lethal dose of medication that only God knew how she obtained because nobody thought Pepper capable of getting black market substances. She had been so innocent. But she'd also been resourceful. _That's who she was_.

That's who they all were, in a way.

* * *

Age claimed Jane. Thor fell in battle, still strong, yet somewhat resigned because he just wanted to see her again. And Loki? Luck may have saved him once, but nobody survived a fall from Bifrost twice, especially if the second had been a leap resulting from his unspoken sadness. Selvig was Selvig- when he had grown old enough, he had begged me to come and relieve him before he became senile. I did not refuse.

* * *

The Captain had been interesting. His team fell apart, and he had nothing more to tie him to this new world. I cannot determine if his death was accidental or intentional, but his shield broke eventually and so did he.

* * *

The others fell quickly, from age, or an enemy that others would have to learn how to defeat. Peter's web finally snapped. Someone finally got kryptonite right into Superman's heart.

* * *

Humanity learned that heroes had been a crutch, and they had to become stronger as a whole.

* * *

Iceman had met a fire he could not tame. Beast had succumbed to, of all things, cancer. Diamonds turned out not to be forever.

* * *

One human clung so fiercely to life that I never expected her to never let go. But she had. Quirky, lovable, adorable Darcy had wrapped her shiny Mercedes around a telephone pole on purpose. I guess she missed her friends too.

* * *

Lady Sif and the Warriors Three were still sung about often in the halls of Asgard.

* * *

Maria Hill and Nick Fury had gone together, victims of an attack by a Japanese demon known as the Oni. They had fought to the last, and their final act was to crawl, painstakingly wounded, to the other. The medics on scene later wondered how they managed to summon the strength to move so far with such injuries, leaving literal trails of blood behind them that marked the distance they traveled in order to cradle each other's bodies. No one bothered to separate their clasped hands, even during burial.

* * *

Among the last to go were the proclaimed immortals. But it had happened.

* * *

The sun shines high in the sky, relentlessly beating down on the shoulders and faces of those beneath its fiery domain. Laughter pervades the air, along with shouts and calls all accentuated with the joy of children in the summertime. The only thing to commemorate the passing of time, endless time, it seems, is the slow tick of a lady's watch, an analog watch, something rare so far in the future, that accents this change.

A dark-haired woman watches the children, ranging from teens to toddlers, roam the vast expanse of emerald grass. It's summer, and she's dressed for it, wearing a deep blue sundress with black lace borders that fell to mid-thigh. The only odd things about her were the white gloves she wore on both hands, elbow-length, and the matching streak in her hair, out of place in her still-youthful features.

Simply dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, a curly-haired man wanders to sit next to her on the gleaming wooden bench. "Hello, Marie."

The woman turns to him, the edges of her eyes crinkling with happiness as her mouth mirrors her uplifted mood. "Bruce! You didn't tell me you were coming!"

He shrugs. "I don't really plan on staying long, Marie."

"Still, while you're here, what can I do for you? Is the meditation working well?"

Frowning, he nods. It was, in fact, something of a godsend to be able to communicate with his wilder self and help control his anger. "Yes, thanks for suggesting the technique."

Her old accent slides into her tone as the presence of her old friend sparks memories long since buried. "Why are you here, Bruce?"

"I think we both know the answer."

"Then you know what I'll say."

He turns, fully assaulting her with the power of his gaze. "Look around, Marie. They don't need heroes like us anymore. My team is dead. Most of yours is gone too. But not us. Not me, because I can't die with any human technique, and you because you were one of our youngest and your powers afforded you an unique advantage."

"Logan's still alive."

"He'll find a way, eventually. Or he'll come to you, like I am."

"What makes you think I'll say yes?"

"Because, Marie, there's nothing left. Not for me, at least. I can't have kids, or a family. Betty's already got grandchildren at this point. All of my friends are dead, and I don't feel like making new ones. They're waiting for me." His eyes beseech her, but her conscience still holds strong against the barrage of truth he was revealing for her to peruse.

"I don't want your blood on my hands, Bruce. I can't take that kind of pain, _be_ that kind of person."

Sighing, he runs a hand through his messy hair. "I know you aren't. But you need to understand, you wouldn't have my blood on your hands. You'd have my gratitude. I wouldn't ask this of you unless I was sure that you could see that."

"When?" There's no point in waiting. Both of them know that. But she asks. Just in case.

"Now." He stands, leading her by the gloved hand to a more secluded area.

Rogue had long since gained control of her powers. Her gloves were a reminder of her power, and of her control. Tugging the silk from her right hand, she extends a shaking hand in his direction and he stares as if it were his salvation.

He takes her hand in his, steadying her and stopping the tremors. He doesn't wince, doesn't flinch, when the pain kicks in; she knows it must hurt far less than the emotional turmoil he's suffered. And then she isn't the one shaking, it's him.

The Hulk won't transfer into her hands, they knew that for a fact, when she'd been called to subdue him. They would both die if she kept skin contact.

When he falls to his knees, his grip unwavering, so does she. His eyes display nothing but elation and anticipation. She can sense the end is close; he's running out of energy, of _life_, for her to drain.

He falls sideways, mouthing his thanks before his body is empty, nothing more than a shell, and his soul has escaped this meager container. She collapses to the ground with him, staring into his now-glazed eyes as a lone tear trickles sideways onto the grass she's lying on. For the longest amount of time she remains in that position before looking away and up towards the sky. And she stays like that for a while, until the stars become visible, because she wants to stay until she can see him again and this is the best she can hope for.

Strangely, she feels no guilt, or pain. Instead, she feels relief. She isn't sure if the emotion is his or hers, but in the end, she concedes and admits it must be both of theirs.

Then she moves to kneel beside him, stroking his cheek, which was warm with false life given from the sun's rays, and closes his dark, unseeing eyes out of respect. Marie stands, leaving her discarded glove on the ground beside him and placing her other one next to it. Pulling out her phone with numb fingers, she reflexively dials S.H.I.E.L.D.'s number to inform them that the last Avenger was dead.

"Hello?" The answering voice is unfamiliar, but that's likely because she hasn't worked with the agency in years.

"This is Rogue, former X-men team leader. Bruce Banner is dead." Her voice is brisk and business-as-usual, but she hits the button to terminate the call quickly, because the words leave a bitter taste in her mouth as she falls, once more, to her knees, to weep, a mix of tears inspired of both grief and happiness.

* * *

And she waits. The day comes when Logan arrives, looking impossibly aged while still retaining his mutation-granted youth, and that is the day the last heroes of the old Earth die.

It only takes seconds for her to discard his regenerative abilities, something else she'd learned to do as the years passed.

The knife she grabs from her nightstand is one made of adamantium, a present from a fallen comrade. It's sleek and thin, but she cares little for its shine. The feature she admires best is the ease with which it takes for her to thrust the blade into her heart. It doesn't hurt, rather, it _relieves_ the pain she'd been carrying all these years instead of causing more.

Blood pools around the deceased bodies of the last of Earth's mightiest heroes, a crimson burial shroud, a red cape, a symbol of life and death and everything in between. It marks not only the end of two lives, but the end of an era. A time of heroes and villains, of black and white in a world now so grey. A period of discovery and recovery, where myths and magic were real and good always triumphed in the end.

The age of vigilantes and clear-cut heroes is over now, though. I know for a fact because as I have already said, I helped facilitate this. I was neither villain nor victim in this world. I was something far more eternal. I am Death. And to those who wait, and even those who don't, I will come.

I will come as I have for your heroes, because no matter what change this new dawn heralds, I am one of the two constants in this equation of endless variables, Life and Death.

* * *

Author's Note: I, again, am sorry. If I warned you, you wouldn't have read it, now would you? This idea has been brewing in my mind for quite some time, actually. Well, tell me what you think and leave a review!


End file.
